Hoarse words for Team Blair

It was the Queen's last speech prepared by Team Blair, and she sounded wearier than ever. Perhaps it was the beginning of a cold, perhaps it was her bad back. Or maybe it was something we can all relate to, such as existential despair. This stagnant pond full of drivel, she seemed to be saying in her hoarse voice - and next year, brand new Scottish drivel!

As she worked her way through all that New Labour stuff about "meeting the challenges", "better frameworks", and "putting the victim at the heart of the criminal justice system", she looked stooped and weary. At one point I half expected her to fling aside the wretched document and call for Helen Mirren to read the thing instead.

There was one laugh. When she announced an independent board to "enhance confidence in government statistics", the peers joined in a deep, cynical chuckle.

Curious then, that when she said that government "remains committed to peace in the Middle East" nobody laughed at all.

Before she arrived the peers sat excitedly together. The official programme announced: "Dress (a collar day)." Lord Levy, at the heart of the police investigation into the sale of honours, arrived. Perhaps it was a feel-your-collar day.

The peers' wives looked younger and more glamorous than ever, as if some had been cage-dancing at Spearmint Rhino. The tiara count was the highest yet - a tribute to Labour's economic policies, or even their doughty attempts to widen the gap between rich and poor.

Margaret Thatcher hobbled in, looking even older and more jaded than Her Majesty. Pauline Prescott was in the gallery, wearing a black hat so vast you could just make out her mouth under the rim. Someone's mobile phone went off. When the ceremony first began you could have been hanged for that. If they had had mobile phones.

The Commons were summoned and walked in pairs to the Lords: Blair and Cameron, Prescott and Hague, Brown and Ming Campbell, followed by a disorderly rabble. They stand around, then, like the Queen, clear off for lunch.

Afterwards the debate on the Loyal Address for the Gracious Speech began. Traditionally this is started by two backbenchers who make light, amusing speeches full of warm feelings and jokes. Someone had made a mistake in asking Alan Michael, a former cabinet minister who does light and amusing roughly as well as a turtle does tap-dancing.

He produced a party political rant about the glories of Blair and Blairism. The Labour party sat in embarrassed silence. The Tories chattered. The Speaker tried to stop them. "There is an awful lot of conversation," he said, but did no good.

It must have happened to you - the terrible fear that if you don't have contact with another human being you will literally die of boredom, and the prime minister will be paying tribute to your hard work and great love of the Commons.

It was hard to make out Mr Michael's peroration above the hubbub, but it seemed to go thus: "Be bold! Be radical! Be inclusive! Be cooperative!" and near to me somebody said: "Be quiet!"

Another Labour MP, Rosemary McKenna, was much much better, though she left a hostage to fortune when she said that one of the first acts of the new Labour government had been to install a coin-operated tights machine in the house.

This David Cameron was able to single out as one of their few, genuine, copper-bottomed achievements.